


(Un)Requited

by Fishwichformylove



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Confessions, M/M, NSFW, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwichformylove/pseuds/Fishwichformylove
Summary: "He’d gotten the seducing part down, just not the confessing, and now it seemed silly to bring it up when it was obvious America was content with “hooking up” or whatever it was called now. And England was content with it, too. Except for when he wasn’t, but that was never enough to stop him from doing it anyway."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Empressvegah: "Hiiii! My I request a (seemingly) one-sided USUK smut? Where Arthur thinks what they have is just a casual hook up and yet he is so in love with Alfred? Angst please, and hopefully a happy ending XD"

“Please, don’t stop.”

England feels stupid the moment he rasps the trembling request out into the pillow. He’s usually better about stifling the fragmented words zipping around his brain, keeping any errant sounds to far less incriminating pants and moans. If the slip-up puts America off any, the rhythm of his hips bucking against England’s backside doesn’t show it. He does as he’s asked instead, and that nearly sends England over the edge.

This is maybe the 4th or 5th time they’ve done this. England knows it’s actually and exactly the 4th, but if he can pretend he’s lost count he can pretend it doesn’t mean as much to him as it does. It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything to America, if the awkward silences and half-hearted conversations outside of this or that hotel room are any indication of his real feelings. The sex must just be a comfort, an outlet. There’s value in that, England thinks, for both of them. But it’s not exactly honest on his end.

That’s his fault, England knows. He had been too forward, but not deliberate and clear enough about his intentions the first time. He’d gotten the seducing and fucking part down, just not the confessing, and now it seemed silly to bring it up when it was obvious America was content with “hooking up” or whatever it was called now. And England was content with it, too. Except for when he wasn’t, but that was never enough to stop him from doing it anyway.

It was mortifying, how desperate England was for closeness that he was willing to swallow his unrequited feelings. But this type of relationship was better than none, even if just barely. It was wonderful, even as it killed him. There were worse ways to go.

The pleasure becomes too intense, and England isn’t able to hold his weight up any more, collapsing to the bed as America continues to fuck him with that irritatingly endless stamina. He thinks he might be able to finish from the hot, relentless weight of America pushing him into the mattress, his cock grinding against the soft, wet sheets with every thrust. England closes his eyes, imagining a more intimate America, letting himself buy into the fantasy just enough to come, with the full knowledge that he’ll feel worse for it when he’s done.

He doesn’t get the chance to complete the lie before America is pulling out of him, a shocking emptiness, and turning him onto his back. England is disoriented for a second, coming back to reality as America spreads and enters him again. He’s gentler this time, and it feels better and worse. England isn’t sure what to do with his legs, wanting so badly to wrap them around America’s hips and pull him closer, but terrified of the intimacy of it, that it could out him.

It ends up not mattering, as America pushes at the backs of his thighs until they’re where he wants them, lowering himself so close to England that he can feel his hard breaths against his face. With a cold jolt of panic, England thinks that America might be about to kiss him. He throws a hand up between them, slapping painfully against America’s collarbone, thumb pushing into the side of his neck so hard he can feel his erratic heartbeat. Being kissed would be too much to bear, too much like the real thing England craved. He closes his eyes and lets himself imagine what it would feel like, how plush and sweet America’s lips might be. Or perhaps it would be rough and hungry, which was equally good and equally unattainable. The hand on America’s collarbone presses away harder and harder the deeper he lets fantasy take him, the unbearable friction of their sweat slick stomachs against his cock driving him closer and closer to orgasm.

“Hey. Look at me.”

England is so startled by the low, thick burn of America’s voice that he obeys without thinking. He immediately wishes he hadn’t. The expression England had been fantasizing about is in front of him, cruelly arranged on America’s face. It isn’t fair that the look should come so naturally to America that he does it without meaning it, but England can’t bring himself to close his eyes again. His gaze is fixed on America’s face, his parted lips and freckled cheeks, his blue eyes focused and bright.

The hand against America’s collarbone relaxes and slides up his neck almost involuntarily, fingers on the verge of shaking as he tangles them in America’s sweaty hair. America’s hand is suddenly on his cock, and the world narrows and widens, England’s mind racing to make sense of the jumble of real and not real. He can’t even tell if his eyes are open or closed by the time he climaxes, and has no idea how much time passes before America spills inside him.

He senses more than sees the lowering of America’s head, lips wet and pink and too close for comfort. England turns his head to the side at the last moment, America’s flushed, sticky forehead making contact with his shoulder for a split second. Then England is rolling out from under him, sore and damp, as he escapes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

America is always gone by the time England is done cleaning himself up, so he takes his time, wiping away the chilling sweat clinging to him and washing his face with the sad little bar of hotel soap. He should shower, he knows, but he’s too tired, too aware of the growing sadness crushing his ribs in. It's amplified by the secret, twisted knowledge that he regrets nothing, that he's a willing participant in his own torture. He stifles that line of thinking. If he allows himself any comfort, it will overwhelm him. Better to muddle through than to give in to self-pity.

He gives himself a few minutes to cool down, but the electric pink splattered on his cheeks and chest doesn’t fade. He would be embarrassed by his body’s betrayal if he wasn’t so tired, ready to curl up and sleep despite the aching loneliness that would grow in the empty bed. With a sigh he pats the towel across his face one last time, smooths his hair down, and returns to the bedroom.

He isn’t prepared to see America still sitting on the bed, now dressed. He’s made some attempt to straighten up and make the bed, and that hits England strangely in his chest, like a weird flutter. How desperate and mooning he must be to romanticize even the smallest effort, he thinks. How sad.

“What are you doing?”

It’s meaner than England intends it to sound, but that’s probably for the best. America winces, looking everywhere but England. A sick jolt turns England’s stomach as the thought crosses his mind that he’s about to be dumped. But to be dumped would imply that they had anything at all. That’s little comfort, and England braces for rejection.

“I was thinking maybe I could stay.”

“Why?”

That comes out too hopeful, too fast for England to catch it and hide it away.

America finally looks at him, sad and tired looking in a way that makes England ache all over to hold him, knowing that he can’t. It’s a look England has seen on his own face in the mirror a thousand times, a mask falling away because of unspoken wants. That spark of recognition sends his mind whirling and England is suddenly hyper-aware of his nakedness. America has been inside him, and still something about this moment feels more intimate and dangerous. England scrambles to retrieve a bathrobe and tie it on, hands barely cooperating.

“Why would you do that?” he asks again, voice threatening to crack.

America keeps looking at him, brow furrowing as if he’s trying to telepathically hurl the answer at England. He rubs his eyes hard with his fingertips behind his glasses and sighs heavily into his hands. America stands up and England steps back, fully expecting him to walk out and hoping beyond all hope that he won’t.

He doesn’t.

“Look, I don’t know how to— I’m not trying to—,” America huffs in frustration. “I don’t want to do this any more. I don’t like this.”

England’s stomach drops and he crosses his arms over his middle to hold himself together. He fights the urge to double over and fall apart, fists clenched, fingernails digging bitten half-moons into his palms. England grapples with the knowledge that he is unsatisfying in some way, a new layer of hurt that he hadn't anticipated. He hopes his expression is a more convincing shield than his posture.

“Not— I don’t mean the sex, I just mean—," America runs both hands through his hair and clasps them at the top of his head for a moment, flustered. "Fuck, I like you okay? More than that. And I don’t regret doing all this, but I can’t keep _just_ doing this, y’know? If this is just a booty call to you, fine. Whatever. But I don’t want to keep doing it. It feels wrong.”

“What are you saying?” England still clutches himself across the stomach, not entirely convinced that he isn’t hearing America through the filter of his fantasies.

“I’m saying I want to be with you, but not like this! I don’t want it to just be this, I want to do it for real. But if you don’t want that, if you don’t see me that way, I need to know.”

England probably would have fallen right over from shock if he wasn’t close enough to the wall to lean on it for support. Every inch of him, inside and out, is overwhelmed and full of static, unable to form a coherent response as America’s words echo over and over in his mind. England has imagined this moment time and again, created a dozen confession scenarios. But now, when he needs them the most, the words fail him. He wants to say them all at once, but has become so used to swallowing them whole that he can’t bring them up again. America must have taken his silence as the answer, and he shakes his head with a bitter huff and turns to leave.

“Wait,” England manages to blurt out. “Me too. Me too. God, you have no idea.”

It’s the best he can do, the most honest he can be, and it feels incredible to say even a fraction of it out loud. Now it’s America’s turn to be still, until finally he smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing England has ever seen.

“So I can stay?” he asks simply. Too simply for the unknown complexities the answer will bring, England thinks, but perfect in it’s sweetness.

“Yes.”

England barely has the word out before he’s being kissed, warm and gentle. As he returns the kiss with a smile, he thinks that for once reality is better than anything he’s ever imagined.


End file.
